Knock LA

At the burgeoning age of 5 years old, Tim Kornegay already knew that he wanted to be some type of professional. Recalling his childhood environment, he stated that “what shaped me most was my parents’ work ethic. Both parents worked consistently — I got my work ethic without knowing I was getting it.”

There were also some less positive influences early on.  Tim cited feeling somewhat lost in a large family, lacking general resources for basic living, and an unusually large and consistent police presence in and around Harlem where he grew up as having seriously impacted the choices that he made from what he believed were the only options available to him. Admitting that he was an “adolescent seeking an identity,” Tim told Knock LA in an interview that “I tried to be a normal kid, but in reflection I just wasn’t normal.” This personal belief that his life was “abnormal” resulted in the creation of a new normal for him. Anger, bitterness, resentment, and the willingness to blame everyone else for what he perceived and interpreted as problems became normal for Tim. 

A life of crime and eventual imprisonment was all but assured for Tim, who in time became known as “Big H,” one of the leaders of the Harlem Crips.  

“I wanted to be a professional criminal,” Tim said.

Convicted of conspiracy to commit second degree robbery in 1993 and sentenced to a total of 27 years, his sense of identity as an incarcerated person concretized his criminality. Tim was indeed a professional in prison, an intelligent and ruthless leader who could call shots and order the lives of other men confined alongside him. On occasions when other prisoners from his neighborhood would come to him and ask for advice on a potentially dangerous matter, he would simply explain to them how to make effective weapons and tell them to “go handle [your] business.”

Tim managed a social trifecta as a leader/shot-caller while in prison: He was respected, loved, and equally important, feared. He sincerely believed that he was helping other men step into their manhood and develop personal responsibility and accountability when he directed them to do harm to others, or when he implemented group exercise routines which some of the men were physically unable to withstand.

The life and position of a shot-caller is not typical. Prison staff take notice as to why the hands of nearly every other prisoner are quite literally, and figuratively, dirty, yet the hands of certain others appear to remain clean. Tim told Knock LA he had every reason to continue living as a shot-caller, whether inside or outside of prison. But despite the many objective and subjective benefits of being the equivalent of a mayor, a king, and even a god, Tim came to recognize specific points or moments when he needed and wanted to change.

One of the most important moments was when he was transferred from California Correctional Institution in Tehachapi to High Desert State Prison, not for any provable infractions or crimes committed while he was incarcerated. Tim believed the move to be punitive because of his past. The distance between Tehachapi in Kern County to High Desert in Lassen County is approximately 500 miles; the driving time would be roughly nine hours, depending on the route. 

Tim was shackled with a belly chain around his waist and wearing handcuffs, along with chains connecting his ankles together, for the entire ride. No accommodations were made to use the small restroom in the back of the bus: no slowing down, no stopping, no un-cuffing, no un-shackling. Tim said that during this experience he felt contemplative and asked the universe, “If you want me to change, show me.” 

According to Tim, the universe showed him that the things he thought were helpful to folks were actually harmful. 

The second instance when Tim realized, according to his own assessment, that he “was not a good person” was the result of an encounter with the captain of the Institutional Gang Investigative Unit, or as incarcerated people often refer to them, the goon squad.

Tim told Knock LA that one day in High Desert State Prison, the goon squad appeared at his cell door, ordered him out, handcuffed him, and took him to the hole (i.e., administrative segregation) for three months. All of his personal property was taken during his time in segregation, per routine, with the exception of his battle-worn typewriter. After 90 days he received a notification through in-house mail that he would need to go to the facility’s Program Office. 

Upon arrival at the Program Office, the goon squad captain shook his hand, told him to sit down, and asked, “Who the hell are you?” In response, Tim recited his CDCR number. The captain stated that that was not what he was asking.

“You’re a Crip, but I see that you’re good with the Bloods,” Tim recalled the captain saying. “I see what kind of stuff that you read and write.” 

Tim thought the captain was either making a simple observation or offering a loose compliment related to the positive aspects of Tim’s character and his intellect. As the officer continued speaking, the message became clear to Tim: If you apply what you’ve been learning and you get out, you’re going to be something powerful.

The captain’s words were welcomed and even refreshing, but the dilemma which Tim faced was both stark and grim.

“I knew that I had to get out, but the challenge was getting myself out without getting myself killed,” Tim recalled. “Soon after that I had an ethereal experience when the voice of the universe said, ‘Don’t worry about it — if you work for me as hard as you worked for evil, you won’t need for anything.’ I thought I was losing my mind, because the voice was almost audible. I systematically began planting the seeds with folks that I communicated with that I was on a path of transformation. Prior to that, individuals would come to me with stories of challenges, and I would send them to make a knife and go handle their business. I started saying, ‘I don’t really have an opinion.’ I started changing the conversation.”

Tim’s change was gradual, but he attributed the initiating of the process largely to the squad captain. Prior to and during Tim’s transformative journey, he said there was no access to rehabilitative programs, education, therapy, spiritual guidance or mentorship other than the ones he helped to create. 

In 2015, Tim was finally released. The first few days of freedom felt like a dream, with the biggest challenge he faced being “trying not to be Big H.” Surprisingly, the label of felon had virtually no effect on his employment opportunities, housing, personal relationships, or his sense of belonging. He had learned to believe in himself before being released from prison and was able to demonstrate his worth immediately. 

Tim had no concerns for the possibility and likelihood of encountering people who might have believed that his past permanently defined him, nor did he feel the need to actively resist internalizing society’s expectations of formerly incarcerated people. He claims to have purged his old energy so that most people only knew about it when he said the words, “I’ve been in prison.” When he got out, he felt as if he was “Mr. Anonymous.”

From the day that Tim paroled in 2015, he made the decision to be an “exemplary example” rather than a “legendary failure.” It was this resolution that led him to Urban Alchemy.

When asked what drew him to service instead of simply focusing on his own survival, Tim responded, “Easy answer is purpose.” 

He continued, “I’ve always known that power existed in connecting and amassing people to move in a collective direction. And the community, neighborhoods, the homies and homegirls had an untapped power; and the way to activate it was… ‘community work.’”

As Tim describes it, Urban Alchemy is arguably the biggest reentry program in the country and was founded by and for folks who have served time in prison. It was Urban Alchemy’s philosophy that connected most with Tim’s personal experiences.

Urban Alchemy frames itself as a “complementary strategy to conventional policing,” providing a calming, consistent presence that deescalates conflict, reverses overdoses with Naloxone, and connects people to social services. The organization also teaches personal safety training through classroom instruction in emotional intelligence, trauma-informed care, motivational interviewing, advanced deescalation, harm reduction, and self-care.

The Urban Alchemy model is to employ people with histories of incarceration to work in some of the most public and challenging spaces, where similar lived experiences can be especially valuable.

“Lived experiences give us the ability to identify what people have gone through, and their challenges, and the perceptual devaluation,” Tim explained to Knock LA. “The understanding of that gives the key to looking past that and the mental framework that creates some of those challenges.”

Sometimes traditional institutions fail to reach the people whom Urban Alchemy can. For Tim, the reason why is simple: “The ability to connect has always been there because of my ability to identify with and empathize with from a place of understanding.”

When asked what formerly incarcerated people understand about community safety that policymakers frequently overlook, Tim quickly stated that “there will never be real community safety that doesn’t include and elevate public participation.” To Tim, genuine public safety looks like “non-[police] crisis response teams composed of community members trained in deescalation, conflict resolution, trauma informed communication that treat encounters [and] engagements with respect and compassion.”

Tim asserted that if formerly incarcerated people were never given meaningful second chances, such as those provided by Urban Alchemy, our communities would lose “[a] valued workforce, millions of potential taxpayers, [and] newly empowered voices for change.” He also believes there is evidence that formerly incarcerated people can and do contribute to the transformation of others and of urban spaces with love, respect, and compassion. Additionally, they can heal communities at the intersection of extreme poverty, addiction, mental illness, and homelessness.

Urban Alchemy does not enforce laws, evict people, or take responsibility for protecting property. Instead they “listen and promote behavior that protects the health and safety of public spaces.”

Tim Kornegay, former felon, former gang member, former shot-caller, always a visionary, suggests that real public safety isn’t found in more policing, but in the restoration of human value. If the success of Urban Alchemy is any indication, the future of our urban spaces depends less on policing and more on the compassion, accountability, and lived expertise of those who finally have a seat at the table.

brian “bf” thames is an award-winning journalist, documentary filmmaker, and author of several books exploring identity, trauma, injustice, and the human capacity for transformation. Drawing on 33 1⁄2 years of incarceration and his own journey of change, he advocates for criminal justice reform, formerly incarcerated people, community healing, and a more honest definition of real public safety.